


Dog Tags & Accents

by pastomatoes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Accents, Alcohol, Arthur and Matthew comfort each other, Bar, Depression, Dog Tags, Drug Use, Drug Use Mentioned, Grief, M/M, One Night Stands, actually a lot of songs, angst like whoa, arthur can be sweet, club, death anniversary, human names only, idk - Freeform, inspired by the song Sometime Around Midnight, just a random one shot, just needed to finish this before it killed me, kinda messy narration because Matthew is a wreck, late night rambles, my condolences, not sure what this is, poetic Matthew, poor matthew, probably not gonna continue this, some not-so-descriptive sex, some slow dancing for you, they aren't nations in this, when he's drunk anyway, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastomatoes/pseuds/pastomatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"And in the end, we were all just humans… Drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness."</em> - F. Scott Fitzgerald</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Tags & Accents

I keep glancing at the clock, drinking in the sight of time passing and letting a curt breath of relief slip past my lips whenever the hands tick to a new notch. I've never wanted the night to end so badly.

While everyone is forgetting about clocks and alarms and appointments in favor of worrying about whether or not their hips are undulating in perfect sync with the rhythm of the shitty, meaningless music, if the girl they're dancing with is really the age she's claiming to be, or if they'll be able to walk tomorrow when their boss calls them in early for work- I'm chasing the reminder of what day it is with liquor. 

I trace my finger around the rim of my shot glass before downing it, relishing in the burn that poisons my throat. This whole atmosphere is disgustingly shallow, a mess of hiccuping kids sloshing their drinks around and apologizing halfheartedly when the liquid stains the front of your nice dress shirt, damn them.

I suppose I shouldn't've worn such a nice dress shirt anyway… (Really, who the hell wears a tie to a club like this?) I guess I just wanted to prove that I can clean up every once in awhile. I wanted to appear like a stable, competent human- _Yes, hello, I'm Matthew Williams, your average Joe. No, no, I haven't been a sobbing mess for the past month. What makes you say that? Look, I even have a fitted shirt! My sleeves are rolled up and everything!_

I groan, rubbing my eyes violently because maybe if I do it hard enough I'll wake up- Maybe, _just maybe_ , this is all a terrible, fucked-up nightmare… I'll wake up, turn around, and Alfred will be sleeping beside me. I'll shake him, laughing, and say, "I had the craziest dream!" 

**It's sometime around ten when my lingering fingertips swipe across the glossy countertop of the bar.** They leave prints in the mess of dirt and skid marks courtesy the various heel-wearing girls (and shit, probably guys, too) who had climbed on top of it to dance in a futile attempt to look sexy. I ponder exactly when the surface had last been wiped down, decide not to think about it too much 'cause it makes me ridiculously nauseous.

It would be a blessing not to hear my thoughts anymore, but being in such a boisterous atmosphere just makes them scream louder, and all too soon I have a raging headache. The blinding neon lights and deafening "music" do nothing to help. 

I don't know how long I've been here or how many shots I've had, but when I raise my hand to summon another drink the bartender gives me a worried, twisted face before walking off to retrieve it. He looks like he's wondering how many drinks it takes to sate someone like me, kinda like that kid on those commercials wondered how many licks it took to get to the tootsie-roll center of a tootsie pop and shit, now that I think about it, I kinda wonder, too...

"You look lonely." 

It takes me a couple of foggy moments to realize I'm being spoken to, and even when I realize the fact it takes another moment to gather the energy it takes to lift my head and look the man in the eye; _you look lonely._

I recognize him after briefly studying his face with weary eyes and a stuttering heartbeat. 

He seems to have become a professional at navigating a club in the year I'd gone without seeing him. He holds himself with a soft confidence that makes me sick to my stomach. How dare he stare at me like that, like he fucking understands the pain and staggering heartache-

Don't _think_ , don't _remember_ … 

"Hi, Arthur," I mumble, more out of a never-wavering disposition to be polite than genuine interest. 

"You look lonely, Mattie," he repeats.

I cower at the sound of the nickname on his lips, my chest twisting tightly with anxiety and _something else_ because _only Al ever called me that_ and hell, Arthur's gotta be shit-faced to be speaking so informally.

The alcohol thrums lazily in my veins, making itself at home in the pit of my liver, and I feel disgusting, feel wrecked and hazy. I retrieve a shaking hand from my side, placing it in front of my eyes to make sure I'm still real, still fabricated in this floating spectacle, still material and breathing and alive, I want to feel _alive_. No, scratch that: I want to feel _anything_. That's the reason I came here, isn't it?

"Every bastard here is lonely," I finally answer. It comes across far more snarky than I'd intended, mostly because I didn't get a chance to think about it before it was escaping my mouth, but Arthur doesn't back away and he doesn't flinch.

No.

He _grins._

How does a man like that still manage to grin?

"Yes," he agrees, "but you look _exceptionally_ lonely." 

"S'pose," I reply. The bartender returns just in time with my drink, and I grip the shot glass until my knuckles turn a sick, pasty white before dipping my chin back to down it with disturbing skill. When I glance back at Arthur he seems impressed, a smug smirk sitting on his lips, and I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to wipe that look off of his face, to fight until my knuckles hurt as bad as my heart. 

"What?" I question. He merely shrugs, a slow hitch and shudder of his shoulders.

"I just never imagined I'd see you in a place like this, I suppose," he tells me. He gives me a sympathetic expression when I have to grip the countertop to avoid toppling out of my seat- The sudden surge of alcohol, _more alcohol_ , is more powerful than I'd anticipated. 

(Alfred used to tell me that I couldn't hold my alcohol very well: _Don't drink, Mattie; you don't need that shit in your system._ He always said that, even as he got dressed up to go out drinking, to blend into a crowd of experts of ignoring problems and now that I think about it, he was one of them, always had been.)

"You know why I'm here." I wish that I had the casual power Alfred had, the unintentional aggression and the ability to make even light conversation seem heavy simply by switching the tone of his voice. 

He always sounded strong. I don't even have the strength to pretend I have strength.

I'm not Alfred, so when I say it, _You know why I'm here_ , it almost comes across as sad.

It is sad, I suppose… 

Fuck, I'm _sad_ , alright?

_Pitiful, blasted emotions._

"You're right," Arthur answers. "Which means you must know why I'm here, too." 

His voice has dropped to a whisper, now, and if I weren't watching his lips form the statement I probably wouldn't have understood him. He shifts, leaning his weight on his right foot to prop his elbow against the bar and stare at me with eyes that reflect the dim lights of the ceiling above and there's also a little bit of something that looks like sorrow intermingled with misplaced lust- Very, very misplaced lust.

His hair is parted and gelled, though a couple of unruly strands refuse to conform to his standards in favor of reaching out for the crowd behind us. His fingers curl around the neck of his sweater vest, tugging at it because he must be burning up in that thing, looking like he's about to attend a business meeting what with his damn rolled-up sleeves and that damn watch that accentuates his bony wrist and that damn- _Him_. The way his chest rises and falls so calmly is truly kinda lovely, borderline therapeutic, and Jesus Christ, isn't this man far too beautiful to be someplace like this, to have heartache like-?

Like… 

I don't realize my lips have parted until he's kissing me.

_He's kissing me._

And I don't realize how much I like the feeling of his mouth on mine until he isn't.

My fingers run along my lips, trying to make up for the lost weight there, the lost friction, the lost beautiful, nice, _human_ warmth. "W-why did you do that?" I wonder aloud. 

Arthur flinches, tries to hide it with a shrug. "You looked daft with your mouth hanging open like that," he tells me snidely, or maybe playfully… I never could read the undertones of British lingo very well. 

"No," I say, sitting up, trying to regain control of my loosening body. It's turning to mush and I'm helpless to stop it; I don't know if it's the alcohol or just Arthur or- "No, I mean… Why did you stop?"

He looks surprised. 

At least I think that expression means surprise; I guess I can't exactly decipher _anything_ anymore. 

"I… Well you weren't doing anything, so I was under the impression that you didn't like it-" 

"I liked it," I tell him. "It… It felt nice."

He smiles sadly. I didn't know people could smile like that. I make a mental note to ask him how he does it, but before I can, he's muttering an "I'm so sorry" and… 

For a moment I think he's apologizing to me for the kiss, but then he closes his eyes and inhales sharply through his nose and I realize that he's whispering an apology to _him_ , to Francis. 

Something wet pricks at my eyes, so I close them and inhale sharply and then I apologize, too, apologize because even though nothing has happened between Arthur and I yet, nothing unredeemable, I can feel the guilt already eating me alive, consuming my head and threatening to haunt me to the grave because Arthur isn't Alfred and he _should_ be Alfred but fuck, _no one's touched me in a year-_

Arthur's fingers wrap around my wrist in slow-motion, and my hand tingles like maybe it's fallen asleep but I feel completely, strangely awake.

It doesn't take much persuasion for him to get me to go with him back to his fusty motel. Nothing takes much persuasion anymore. All he has to do is pet my wrist, a slow sliding back and forth with his featherlight thumb, and I'm his, all his, because _Alfred used to do that, used to pet me like that…_

Arthur's motel: peeling fleur-de-lis wallpaper; a slanting framed photo of Niagara Falls above the mini fridge; cigarette ashes that stick to the soles of my beat-up leather shoes; air that feels far too toxic to be deemed capable of breathing. I wonder how someone like him could occupy a place like this. It doesn't feel right, but then, _nothing_ feels quite right and it's beginning to irritate me.

"Sorry," he says, smiling. "I know it's not much. I'm only here for the weekend." I watch him glide to the tattered couch in front of the TV that's buzzing sporadic static. He flops onto the sofa, lets his lanky frame sink into the maroon cushion, and I realize something: Arthur's beautiful, really, especially with the contrast of such an ugly environment.

He's even more beautiful when he flashes an inviting, lazy, half-assed smile at me as he pulls his vest over his head and pops open the buttons on his white-collared shirt to reveal the smooth, milky, wonderfully scarred skin of his chest, and I'm reminded that this man must be twice my age, must have twice the mental capacity at this moment in time.

"'s fine," I answer, and maybe it's the alcohol that's making my words slur, or maybe it's just the view. 

"Take a seat. I can show you how to do a line, if you like," he offers, nodding his head. I stride over, dodging the coffee table and falling into the couch beside him as he retrieves a bag of white.

I look down at the table and he's pushing the powder into a firm line with his driver's license. He pulls out a dollar bill, waves it playfully before rolling it into a tight cylinder. He demonstrates, taking the line so smoothly that I'm suddenly convinced snorting cocaine must be some form of art. 

I'm still entranced when he offers it to me, shows me how to plug one nostril while I snort with the other. I take the bill, place it to my left nostril since it feels clearer, bow my head, breathe in-

Fucking _burning._

The powder flies down my throat, seems to clog there, and I'm sent into a fit of uncontrollable coughing as I sit up. I squeeze my eyes, tears forming there, but Arthur only pats my back in a feeble attempt to comfort me. I recoil, immediately offended and wheezing repeatedly between hisses of, "What" and "the" and "hell?"

"It'll hit you in awhile," he tells me…

I squint my eyes, trying to control the pace of my breathing, not wanting to listen to anything he's saying anymore, but-

…He's right.

**It's sometime around eleven when my mind starts scattering and my mouth starts opening, peeling my ribcage open only to assault my heart until it's tattered and bleeding on the floor.**

"Your shirt," Arthur says, nods, a cigarette in one hand as he crosses his legs and leans into the couch. I furrow my brows, confused until he elaborates with, "Take it off." 

I reach for the buttons but can't grip them, and I'm not sure which is shaking: my hands or my shirt?

Arthur leans forward to help me, slipping the buttons from their niches. He looks as if he has his life together when he's up this close. Not many people can unbutton shirts like him. Hell, come to think of it, he ought to put that on his résumé: fingers don't tremble. That's beautiful. _He's_ beautiful. Curse his amazing abilities. I wanna be as collected as he is, wanna take that calmness from him, wanna kiss him and let him breathe that silence into me, wanna kiss him, wanna… 

"…kiss you," I whisper, eyelids drooping. "I wanna kiss you." He looks up at the sound of my voice, quirks a brow in amusement. 

"You wanna kiss me?" he asks. He retracts when my shirt is completely unbuttoned. He taps the end of his cigarette, lets the ashes fall to the carpet as he tilts his head and studies me. 

I can't think of any argument to back up why he should let me, so I just say, "Please."

"I was hoping to get to know you better first," he says, biting his lip, his lips, his lips- He must see the disappointment flood my veins, because he gives me an offer. "How about this: for every question you answer, you get a kiss."

"Yes," I breathe, watching him slide off of the couch to position himself on his knees on the floor in front of me and I'm so desperate for touch that I ignore how childish this Kiss-For-A-Question game truly is. _"Yes_ -"

"Okay." His hand slides into my hair, nails scraping gently against my scalp until they reach the nape of my neck and his fingers curl there. He tugs my head down, level with his. "How long has it been since… Alfred passed…?" 

"One year ago today," I pant. My jaw clenches. "He passed one year ago today, it's the anniversary-"

Arthur kisses me, swallows the rest of that sentence, stealing away the pain. This isn't like the kiss we shared at the bar: This one is harder, deeper, _needier_ , and all I want is for Arthur to take away the hurt because this darkness is eating me alive and god, I can't fucking hold this weight anymore- 

His tongue slips past my parted lips, flicks up the roof of my mouth, tracing the ridges that lay there and my mind sparks and clears. I keen, my limbs falling slack beneath his hands which sit loosely against my thighs. The force of the kiss assures me that that question would be the hardest one.

He tugs my hair, forcing me away. 

I stare into his eyes, not blinking because if I blink then I can't see those eyes, greener than… Than… Something green. He meets my gaze, completely unafraid, and I've never met someone who wasn't scared off by the tears in my eyes. I feel trust bubble up in my ribcage, seizing my body and there's a voice insisting that _this man understands, Matthew; it's okay to hurt with him, he understands._

"I can't breathe," I tell him. 

"Grief," he says. "Stifling, isn't it?"

There they are: the tears. They shake and grow heavy, too heavy for my eyes. They slide down my cheeks and hang onto my chin as I sniffle. 

Arthur doesn't wipe the tears away. To wipe them away would be to hide my vulnerability.

_And god, I want to be vulnerable._

The next question comes as he leans down to my chest: "What do you do?" 

"I'm a poet, but I haven't been able to write since Alfred… I'm trying to get a degree in… In- _Arthur_ …" My voice drops to a low purr, head lolling against my shoulder as his beautiful-lovely-soft mouth sucks one of my nipples. He takes it between his teeth and my hips buck, unwarranted. 

"A degree in what?" he insists, whispering. His fingers pinch at the nipple that isn't currently being abused so wonderfully. I stare up at the ceiling, the patterns beginning to spiral together as I struggle to think properly, to construct a coherent sentence.

"A degree in… Degree in…" My words stumble when his tongue starts to swirl wonderfully. "…English liter- _ature_ , oh god-" 

He bites down and pulls back before releasing the bud. "You enjoy English literature?" 

"I love the English," I mumble, eyes closing for a couple of empty moments, empty moments where nothing exists but Arthur. "Love your mouth, too, Arthur, so damn hot…" 

And that very mouth is going lower, lower, lower until Arthur's chin reaches the hem of my pants and he looks up for permission that I grant immediately with vigorous nodding and a "pleaseplease."

"One more question, love," he promises, hot breath sliding across my belly and I didn't know how much breath weighed until now.

"Who do you need me to be tonight?"

The question hits me hard.

A blow to my lungs.

_Who do you need me to be tonight?_

My head reels.

_Who do you need…?_

I feel the wetness return on my cheeks as my mouth opens, forms a name: "Alfred." 

I answer without thinking. I don't have to think to know that I need him. I know that that part of me will never mend; that part of me will always ache to be filled again but remain vacant and sobbing until the day I die and can join him. I know that he will haunt my mind into the early hours of morning, the hours I desire to be empty most. I know that I will never be able to settle for anything, _anyone_ … Less than Alfred.

And somehow, that makes me love him even more. _Thank you for this pain,_ I want to say. _Thank you._

I reach around my neck to grab the chain that lays there, lifting it over my head and handing it to Arthur: Alfred's dog tags. "Could you…?" I start shakily. He takes them, puts them around his own neck, and as I watch him, I feel it: that hurricane of emotion that always waits on the tip of my tongue, threatening to break the dam that I had built to protect myself from the unquenchable cravings that scream for human contact and…

And I throw words at Arthur, the words that, until now, had been confined to paper: "I'm a mess," I sob. "I'm still a mess." 

"It's alright," Arthur says, and I pray to god that he's telling the truth, that we all really do end up being redeemed and saved and maybe not happy, but surely not as lost as we've been…

"You're beautiful," he murmurs softly, but the words imprint against my mouth like they weigh a ton. His fingers flirt with my jawline, curl beneath my chin, and a calloused thumb rubs soothingly across my cheek. I press into that hand, ache for the warmth it provides, long for the comfort I'd denied myself for a year now. 

"I wish you could see that, Matthew Williams."

I breathe, ragged and panting. My chest feels shredded as I raise my hand to his hair, letting it trek through his short locks, and the words tumble past my mouth before I can comprehend them. "Show me," I choke. "Show me that I'm beautiful; make me believe it-"

He looks pained as he smiles, tilts my chin, captures my lips and…

I whimper, whimper because his words are still melting into my skin and because it's unfair how wonderful his lips feel and taste and oh god, it's been _so long_ … 

His tongue ventures into my mouth and it feels almost as if it's evaluating me, devouring the darkest parts of me and the weight lifts from my shoulders if only for now. I sigh into the kiss as I let my hands drop to run down the expanse of his chest and to his hips, where I curl my fingers into the loops of his trousers.

**It's sometime around midnight when Arthur strips me of my clothes and tosses my faith to the floor.** I'm lost, spiraling in a wave of just him, only him: his hands, his kisses, his praise. 

We stumble toward the bed with wobbling, tangled legs. I want him, want him until his touch is more than a breeze sailing across my skin, want him until his name is engraved on my tongue and I'm panting for breath that could never fill my diaphragm like he fills my entire being. 

"I told Alfred I would move on," I murmur, sitting on the foot of the bed. "I told him I would find someone new; I promised I could do that for him. But I can't, and he won't leave my fucking head-"

Arthur pushes me onto my back and I let him, let him straddle me with a warm weight that I had missed for the past year, and the mere feeling of his thighs tightly hugging my hips is enough to make me sigh. 

I ask a question I already know the answer to: "Would you like me to be Francis for the night?"

He nods.

"Yeah," he says, voice low. He doesn't look me in the eyes as he wets his chapped lips. "Yeah, god, that'd- That'd be-"

"Embrasses-moi," I whisper, staring up at him as he towers over my frame. 

His face floods with color, and he does just that. 

He kisses me.

I close my eyes and-

Alfred is kissing me.

Deep, warm… He pries my mouth open with his skillful tongue.

The drugs make it a little easier to pretend. 

The drugs and the voice, Alfred's voice, so clear in my head… 

_"Don't even know why you bother with clothes anymore, Mattie."_

My toes curl and my chest rattles.

His fingers start plucking at the button of my pants, maneuvering down to grab the zipper. I'm covered in goosebumps as he starts unbuckling my belt with those fingers, fingers that don't tremble. I never open my eyes because it _hurts_ , dear god it hurts-

"J'ai besoin de toi," I call into the darkness. I lift my hips to assist him as he slides my pants and boxers down. Immediately after they're discarded I hear fumbling: unbuckling and unzipping, followed by the sound of a cap being popped open. My heart races.

" _Dépêchez-vous_ -"

" _I'm right here, babe_ ," Alfred consoles me. " _It's been so long since we've done this; I wanna take it slow._ " Fingers press against my entrance and I bite my bottom lip, twisting the cheap bed sheets in my balled fists. 

I manage a choked, "S'il vous plait." The fingers- just two- press wetly inside with ease. A strangled moan escapes me and the muscles in my legs tighten and quiver. The digits slide in as far as they can, curling and scissoring until they hit a spot that makes my back arch. "Mon _dieu_ ," I breathe. 

Another finger. " _Stay still, babe._ "

I lose track of time, just know that for what feels like an eternity those fingers are working magic inside of me and making me believe in a higher being. The suddenness with which they're taken from me almost makes my eyes flutter open, but-

" _You've gotta keep your eyes shut, 'kay, Mattie?_ " Alfred reminds me. " _Are you_ …"

"…Ready?" 

I nod.

He thrusts up, _in_. I gasp, a quiet inhale as Alfred seizes my lips and forces his tongue into my mouth. We sit there for awhile, not moving as I get used to the feeling of being filled again. I finally nod, ready, and Alfred grabs my thigh to hoist my leg over his shoulder, letting it hang limp and useless. He bows his head to pepper kisses across my collarbone. He knows it makes me squirm, knows that when he mutters " _I love you_ " between each breath I lose myself in bliss; there is nothing like being adored by Alfred F. Jones-

I feel the dog tags swing and hit my chin lightly on occasion as he sets a steady pace, slow but deep. I focus on listening to the slow rattling of the chain as it swings like a pendulum, slapping quietly against Alfred's chest. 

The rhythm of the dog tags makes me believe I can hear his heart beating. 

"S'il vous plait," I pant again, desperate to feel him. Fingers slide into my hair, but they don't pull, don't tug- They just rest there, stroking occasionally. 

Dear god, he feels so good… 

_"Come for me."_

I feel it bubbling up. My abdomen floods with heat.

I whimper, body convulsing, temples sweating, stomach constricting, _please_ -

_"Come for me, Matthew._ "

Air fades from my lungs and my head tosses back and _don't stop, don't let it stop_ \- I come, my fingernails digging into Alfred's back until I feel his shoulder blades quiver and blood surfaces and I call his name like I know he wants me to; he loves hearing it, says he likes how it sounds on my tongue, says it makes him feel wanted...

Shivers rack my ribcage and I fill my lungs to the brim with raw oxygen, feel my heart pulsate freely in my fingertips, feel my bones rattle- 

I open my eyes.

My world crumbles and I shatter, feel as if I've lost Alfred all over again. 

I remember the deal, though, see Arthur's eyes are clenched shut like he's trying to ignore the reality, too, but he must be so close. 

I reach up to pet his hair, coaxing him to his high, and I need only whisper one thing for him to come undone:

"Je t'aime, Arthur." 

He gasps, tenses, stills. I kiss his face as he does, pressing my lips to his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks…

**It's sometime around one when I tell Arthur that I wish to dance.** He doesn't guffaw or scoff; he takes my hand and leads me across his motel room like it's a ballroom floor. I'm limping, my clothes are ruffled and probably as messy as the hair on my head, and I know that we must truly look ridiculous, dancing in a messy motel room at one in the morning with our shirts on backwards, but I need this and I think that Arthur must know that and so he gives it to me in the best way he can.

I rest a rosy cheek on the Brit's shoulder and pretend that my arms aren't trembling when I wrap them around his neck. The floorboards creak and stutter beneath our muffled shuffling, the quiet rhythm we set by swaying back and forth to the beat of our hearts since the radio sits broken on the windowsill nearby. 

He takes the lead without question, his fingers curling around my bony hips loosely enough that I can escape but tight enough that I can feel his desire for me to stay- _Stick around; I could have you and you could have me, Matthew Williams; we could just have each other for the rest of our lives._


End file.
